


Take a sad song, and make it better

by orphan_account



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: M/M, angsty, implied mclennon, late 60s beatles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-30 22:57:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20105017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Set near to the Beatles breakup. Paul attempts to write a song and reflects on the past few years.





	Take a sad song, and make it better

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is just a quick piece I wrote to try and get out of a writer's block, so don't expect anything too great. Enjoy :)

The studio was empty - almost silent apart from a strum of the guitar or a heavy sigh. Paul sat alone, scribbling down lyrics to a song he was sure he'd never play.

There was something about that emptiness. It should've been the perfect conditions for songwriting, and it almost was. That was the stuff tortured artists thrived off of. In that emptiness was a melancholy song Paul itched to write the words to.

But he couldn't. He didn't write songs alone. Or at least he didn't use to.

It wasn't long ago that he and John would do this, sitting side by side on John's bed, bouncing ideas off each other for their first songs. Their pretentious, soppy love ballads that seemed like the pinnacle of music writing at the time.

Paul knew those moments well. There was a spark between them, the kind that promised greatness. He still remembered how willing he was to chase it. So willing, he chased it all the way to Hamburg.

Hamburg. The setting may have changed, but the routine didn't. They'd still sit together, now in the back of vans that smelt like vomit or on their worn beds, each holding a guitar, spending hours coming up with new things to play. That spark they'd lit back in Liverpool was beginning to burn.

Paul remembered how John's eyes would light up when he struck a good chord. He remembered lying next to John, singing softly as they stared up at the night sky. He remembered the booze and cigarettes and the desire to do something, to be someone. He could still feel the touch of John's hand on his leg, still smell the smoke that would float between them. The memories stuck in Paul's mind, clear as a photograph.

Paul flipped over to the next page of his notebook. There might be a lyric in that, a tune in those memories.

He hummed quietly, but he knew it didn't sound right.

After Hamburg came it. The explosion. The greatness Paul had felt so near to had finally come, and he _lived_ off it.

When he closed his eyes he could almost hear the screams of the fans, the applause ringing across the theatres and auditoriums. There was an electricity everywhere they went. They'd sing and they'd feel so high on adrenaline and happiness they wouldn't sleep 'till one in the morning. They'd write songs with the speed and consistency of workers on a factory line, their ideas barely able to fit into one 3 minute song.

Paul quietly reminisced on the hours they'd spend in the studio together, at a time when they could spend hours in a studio without it dissolving into fights, screaming and tears.

He still remembered the way John would cheer before each performance.

_"Where are we going boys?"_

_"Straight to the top Johnny!"_

John would wink at him, grinning madly, and Paul would feel like fireworks were going off in his chest. He would buzz with an infectious amount of energy - they all did.

When did they lose that spark, that electricity? Paul didn't think he could pinpoint a moment. It was a series of events, rather. It was John's growing tiredness with everyone and everything. It was when the screaming from fans became less amusing and more frustrating. It was when the lyrics and the songs stopped sounding like new and innovative.

It was when John stopped looking at Paul like he was the only thing in the world. It was when he became a secondary character in the great John Lennon saga.

They stopped writing all their songs together. They came into the studio at different times.

The electricity faded and the emptiness appeared.

Paul felt sure there was something he could make out of it. Great art always came from great sorrow.

He held his pen above the page. His hand was shaking slightly, almost in anticipation of the lyrics it could write.

There was a space next to him. It felt more and more obvious with every passing second.

_ John should be sitting there._

He'd looked long and hard for someone to fill the space. Maybe John could find new people, but he couldn't. Paul stared down at this blank space. He had to write something, anything.

There were so many words he wanted to say. Words that couldn't be translated into a song, or a poem, or a letter. Words that couldn't be said.

He ripped the page out. He wouldn't be writing a song today. As he left the studio, he wondered if he ever would again.

_Maybe one day I'll find the right words. Just not today._


End file.
